the top of the world ain't as great
by mistsplash
Summary: The princess inside of her has shattered. :BlaiseParvati:


_the top of the world ain't as great_

by mistsplash

* * *

**i.**

She's empty.

Now, that's a rather blunt way of putting it—but it's true. She's fallen into a deep abyss of nothingness and hopelessness and for once, she's glad that there's famous little Harry Potter to divert the attention away from her, because she knows that if there is no Harry Potter to hold her friends' affections, she would've been bombarded with many too personal questions a long time ago.

She's only human, isn't she? Right now, she feels more human than ever, because it's been so long since she's felt real, raw emotion; usually her attention is drawn by magic and wonder and all the glamorous things Hogwarts has to offer.

But now, it's all so straightforward. There's no magic to offer a third path; no colorful fireworks to light up her day.

Mostly everything is just _right_ or _wrong_ and nothing else—except one thing.

Her looks are being slowly traced back to _him_, the Slytherin menace that he is, and she can't stop herself; she's just glad that no one has picked up on her maybe-secret feelings.

It's not quite right.

But then again, it's not really wrong, either.

She's still empty—still hopeless.

* * *

**ii.**

He's looking at her.

She tingles, a thousand thoughts being sparked from that one gesture. Suddenly, there are desires blossoming within her, stronger than before, desires of _him_ and love and absolutely nothing else. On the other side, some logical part of her brain is firing back reasons, excuses, _anything_—"He's a bloody Slytherin," and "What would your friends say?" are only a part of the medley.

There's a war going on in her brain, but it's not about the _rights_ and the _wrongs_.

It's about _daydreams_ and _realities_.

She sighs, trying not to sound too wistful, and fidgets under his stare—calculating and somewhat amused. There's warmth spreading in her cheeks, but she knows that it'll take a few minutes to show, due to her dark complexion.

Gulping and chewing on the end of her quill nervously, the horrible and rational sides of her mind are still clashing; she chances a glance in his direction.

He's still staring.

* * *

**iii.**

It's a half-secret, because all the girls in her dorm _know_ and no one else does, not even her sister.

She's never kissed anyone, not even a peck on the cheek.

Some may call her prude, or maybe it's just the lack of interest from the other gender. She's not very fond of the topic, and often lies about who her daring, dashing first kiss was—on most occasions she claims it was a Muggle boy in her neighborhood with prettypretty eyes and boyish charm.

What most people didn't know, however, is that she's really just describing her first crush.

So maybe she's just a little surprised when he kisses her.

She had been wandering out late—not in her usual routine, yes, but she felt a bit daring that night—and who else run into her but _him_, the prefect?

She likes the feeling of his lips, though, and obviously he doesn't know that this is her first kiss because he's doing things that aren't chaste enough for a first kiss, but she doesn't mind.

She decides that this feeling is most definitely right.

They meet often after that, sharing kisses and _looks_ and things she doesn't even know how to describe.

She doesn't want to believe it, but she knows that this is wrong.

She has another secret.

* * *

**iv.**

There are colors.

They're daring colors, bold ones. She likes these colors, because they remind her of him and he's the best thing in her life right now.

Perhaps she's always been a sickly sweet romantic at heart.

She'll throw him glances and he'll return them with less enthusiasm than she expects, but she dismisses it as a boy's ego—he probably doesn't want to be embarrassed in front of his friends. She lets it slide. Besides, this only adds more color to the grand scheme of things: the pink of embarrassment—shyness.

She's finding excitement once more, and she rather likes it.

The colors swirl around her.

* * *

**v.**

It's another late-night rendezvous.

He's trailing kisses up her neck, and she's stifling moans, not willing to give him the satisfaction. This continues for some time, followed by more heat, more passion, more sounds and noises and fluttery-rough kisses.

She loves it.

She loves this.

But, most importantly, she loves—

"Y'know that this isn't real, right?" he says suddenly, mumbling the words into the crook of her neck, but she can hear him clearly—too clearly.

"What do you mean?" she whispers, struggling to stay focused.

"This isn't love." A small crack forms in her heart. "I don't love you." The crack deepens. "You don't love me." It deepens with that lie.

"Well, duh," she forces out, trying to sound casual.

"Just wanted to make sure," he mutters, before ripping her shirt off and proceeding.

He doesn't know that he's just shattered the little romantic that grew inside her beaten heart.

She doesn't tell him so.

The next morning she wakes up in a broom closet, naked, her neck and back aching from the funny angle she had slept in.

She picks up her clothes and dresses, not even bothering to glance at him, passed out on the floor. She doesn't wake him up, doesn't make any notion of telling him he's late for breakfast, because it's not like she's in love with him or anything.

She walks out of the broom closet.

It hadn't been just another night.

* * *

**vi.**

She doesn't bother with him anymore.

She's not an innocent little girl anymore. She knows the difference between right and wrong, black and white, love and lust.

Her world is still made of colors, not the black-and-white movie she was once stuck in. Though it's not as vibrant and daring as before, there are still colors, and that's enough for her.

She dates a few people, snogs a few like she did with him. She's carefree and fun and she's determined to make sure that no one finds that broken little girl inside of her.

Sometimes, though, her eyes stray.

She's looking at him again.

Tearing her eyes away, she plants a kiss on her current boyfriend's cheek. He seems mildly surprised, but doesn't question her.

Oh, yes, she's definitely forgotten about _that rotten boy_.

* * *

**vii.**

So now he's looking at her.

She knows that expression well—it's one that she often found herself using, when she was younger, stupider.

She ignores him.

He tries to make conversation.

She ignores him.

He kisses her.

_She ignores him_.

He asks her what the hell's her problem.

She gives him a cool glance and says, "You."

He doesn't bother her anymore—but she can still see him looking.

Sometimes, she's tempted to look back.

* * *

**viii.**

It's raining.

She likes the rain, actually, but for some reason there's a feeling of dread building inside her chest.

There's a sharp sound. She jumps, dropping her book and drawing her wand, before realizing that it's only the doorbell. Blushing as she put her book and wand away, she opens the door.

And she finds a soaked boy staring at her. She knows him well.

"What are you doing here?" There's no snap in her tone. It's a simple question. She doesn't harbor too much bitterness; it was five years ago, after all.

"I just…" He sighs. "I—well…"

"Spit it out," she commands, folding her arms over her chest.

"Fine, dammit. Parvati, will you marry me?" He's not on his knees and he's holding the ring in his palm, not a velvet case, so the rekindled romantic in her is duly protesting.

"…what?"

"Marry me, Parvati?" he repeats, seeming aggravated.

A rush of…_something_ hits her. It's a mixture of pain and anger and love and breaking and burning; the _yes_ is on the tip of her tongue, but something more is fresh in her memory.

"_I don't love you."_

Isn't that what he said?

"_You don't love me."_

Wasn't that the way it was supposed to be?

"Parvati," he says quietly, shaking her.

"What?" she asks again.

"Dammit, Parvati, just _marry me_!"

Some part of her wants to say yes.

Some part of her wants to say no.

"_You don't love me."_

_I don't love you._

"No."

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

Review, please.


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